


A Candle Lit at Noon

by Relia



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/Zero, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:13:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28145928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Relia/pseuds/Relia
Summary: “You could want something for yourself, you know,” Kay tells him over chess, bolder than any of the others, no matter where life leads them.Arthur looks back at him, puzzled and not trying to disguise it.  “Kay,” he asks quietly.  “Do you believe I don’t want this?”“You could want something foryourself,” Kay says again, with a point to prove.
Relationships: Guinevere/Arturia Pendragon | Saber, Guinevere/Lancelot of the Lake | Berserker, Lancelot du Lac/Arthur Pendragon, Lancelot of the Lake | Berserker/Artoria Pendragon | Saber
Comments: 3
Kudos: 30
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	A Candle Lit at Noon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prodigy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prodigy/gifts).



Arthur has always been content with kingship.

Lord, what an ungrateful thing to say.

Well, Arthur has taken _pride_ in his kingship, in any case. He’s done his best in his kingship, has tried every day to feel the honor more than the burden in it. Each day he’s awoken, determined to be the king he thinks he ought. Each day, he feels like he’s made a sincere effort.

Merlin has promised him that Britain will rise as Arthur rises, and fall as he falls, and he has believed it. The wizard plays strange, but not false. So Arthur rises each morning with Britain — or for Britain — and bids Guinevere, “good morning, my queen,” with a smile. And she — beautiful, warm, the woman he could never dream of being — smiles back and says, “good morning, my king,” and Camelot rises with them, and sets a shining example for the world.

And all is as it should be; and in this, Arthur is content.

Isn’t he?

#

“You could want something for yourself, you know,” Kay tells him over chess, bolder than any of the others, no matter where life leads them.

Arthur looks back at him, puzzled and not trying to disguise it. “Kay,” he asks quietly, anxiety rising in his throat. “Do you believe I don’t want this?”

“You could want something for _yourself_ ,” Kay says again, with a point to prove. He’s like this, when he gets it in his head to push Arthur on something. Tact and good conduct are indulgences not required of an older brother, it seems. Where anyone else would politely drop a subject Arthur’s set aside, Kay just holds onto the reins and steers forward: it’s a wonder he’s any kind of chess player at all, really.

Arthur supposes he feels ashamed at the question. Has he been behaving so poorly? He’s been given more, in life, than any other man or woman in all of Britain; the idea that his own brother could think of him as morose or dissatisfied is embarrassing. It’s unseemly, he’s sure, that a king should sit upon his throne, honored by all the bounty under his command, and play the part of the lonely mendicant. Has he really made such a poor showing of his contentment?

Arthur resolves to appear more appreciative, more satisfied. It just won’t do, to be seen as an ingrate. He’s better than that.

He smiles at Kay, determined to change his mind. (Does anyone else think what Kay thinks, he wonders? Do the people gossip that the king is a spoiled churl, who resents his throne? Does Arthur’s smile look convincing enough?) “Really, Kay,” he tries, hoping his tone seems light and airy. He’s not good at light and airy — Guinevere usually carries that role for them both, being better skilled at tempering seriousness — but he tries, even so, to borrow some of her levity. “I have a castle, newly built; a wife, sweet and wise and comely; the service of knights braver and more true than any ever born. I eat well, I have the counsel of a wizard who speaks prophecy to steer me, and I even have a frequent chess opponent who leaves his bishop unprotected for the taking — thank you for that last. I sit the throne of the most blessed kingdom ever nurtured into being upon this Earth. Honestly, what more do you think I could want?”

Kay lets Arthur sweep the bishop from the board like it’s nothing, a cheap magic trick, and he keeps pressing his pawns forward.

“ _Anything_ , Arthur.”

It’s some years before Arthur understands.

#

Lancelot du Lac, it should be said first and foremost, is indescribably beautiful. This is a fact self-evident to everyone who knows him, men and women alike, young and old; and Arthur is not alone in noticing it. He was raised in fey lands, and an otherworldliness touches everything about his character: the grace with which he moves, the poise with which he speaks, the way he expects so much more of others than they know to expect of themselves. He’s a man of such immaculate perfection that the very act of encountering imperfection confounds him. Because of this, he is almost casually arrogant; he has no concept of humility when he was raised to be so obviously flawless.

Arthur doesn’t get a chance to offer him a seat at the Round Table, for example. Lancelot — certain of his value — invites himself.

It happens in the aftermath of a battle, when Arthur’s wiping down his horse and Bedivere is reporting his men’s injuries to him. The battle’s well over, when a knight aflash in silver armor approaches on a dapple gray stallion. 

Arthur and Bedivere are caught by surprise at the strange development, breaking apart to put their hands on their swords. A dozen possibilities flicker through Arthur’s mind. An unseen remnant of the enemy forces? A scout, a messenger? 

Reliable Gawain cuts in between them like a sunbeam, half-armored, and draws his sword on the knight’s mount in the sweaty glare of midafternoon. “Dismount or be unhorsed,” he challenges.

The knight draws up short in front of them, unspeaking, and throws a leg over his saddle to drop to the ground. Good lord, he’s tall; even Bedivere barely reaches his nose.

By now, Bedivere has flanked him too, sword at the ready. The knight doesn’t bother acknowledging them. He sweeps off his helm, revealing a fall of lustrous violet hair like silk, braided back into a long tail. His features are elegant, artistic, almost a mark of divinity upon mortal flesh. Absurd as it is to say, the man is so exceptional in his appearance that Arthur nearly gasps just to look upon him.

“You’re Arthur of Britain?” he asks, his voice edged with a Gaulish accent.

It’s impossible to know what he wants. Cautiously, Arthur answers, “I am.”

The knight is studying him with an almost discomfiting interest. Arthur’s never enjoyed the scrutiny of others — attention suits him poorly, and Merlin’s had to badger him into weathering it — but being a king has meant that there will always be eyes upon him, measuring his worth. There will always be judgment. If this knight looks at Arthur a little more closely than feels casual, still Arthur can bear it without giving an outward sign that it affects him. He stares back, unmoved, and the knight cants his head in thought. “Much has been made of you. If half of the stories are to be believed, you would be a king of matchless heroics. I had thought to see the truth of it for myself.”

Ah. Arthur holds himself still, his hand loose but ready on the pommel of his sword. He sighs. “And I suppose you’re here to test my mettle, then?” 

He’s faced challengers before. There are men enough in Britain who resent his ordained claim to the throne, men who’ve thought him small and naive and easily toppled. Those who seek to redress that feeling at swordpoint have not left satisfied in their aims. This man’s hopes of striking down King Arthur would hardly be anything new — just tiresome.

The knight’s smile is beneficent. “No need. I watched your battle from just yon. I saw your men tend the enemy wounded and offer them water from your own skeins.” His eyes traverse the battlefield again, seemingly to reassure himself of what he’s found there, and whatever conclusion he’s come to. “That satisfies me of your quality; your skill is of much less consequence. No — I am here to join your company.”

Gawain barks out a laugh. Bedivere lowers his sword. “Better clear a seat at the Table, Arthur,” Gawain calls out, still amused. “Sir Someone-or-other’s inviting himself. Must be your lucky day.”

Arthur relaxes minutely. It’s been a long day already, and what he’d really like to be doing is helping Bedivere take stock of the weapons and armor they’ve salvaged from the field, maybe finding something to eat. This hopeful newcomer, however pleasing to look upon, fits nowhere in his plans for the afternoon. But such is the lot of a king: his time is not his own, not even when he could be eating a heel of bread. And whatever amusement Gawain finds in it, it’s clear this knight demanding their attention is in dead earnest.

“Your name, sir knight?”

His bow is elegant. The royal blue of his tabard highlights the grace of the movement. Arthur wishes, again, that he didn’t notice. Why are these things distracting him so? 

“Lancelot du Lac.”

 _Du Lac._ An unusual epithet, and not one Arthur’s heard of. He glances to Bedivere, who likewise shakes his head.

Arthur presses a knuckle to his chin. It means nothing, of course, that the man’s name is unfamiliar to him. Arthur vastly prefers merit to notoriety, and has passed over many storied knights and lords whose reputations showed them lacking good character. But he’s hungry and still feeling uncharitable, and he resents the pompousness that’s led Lancelot du Lac to insert himself in the midst of Arthur’s day like this, without so much as a by-your-leave.

The fastest way to resolve this will be to put the man in the dirt and have done with it. Then he’ll smile and tell him that, while the Knights of the Round Table are a select few, there is always a place at Camelot for those who are willing to work hard and make a contribution, and the king’s army would welcome him into its service if he still wishes to devote himself. Arthur doesn’t turn away hard work from a man of ideals, regardless of his presumptuousness.

Yes. He’ll address this problem head on — as it’s best to do with problems — and once he’s defeated Lancelot du Lac in combat, he can put the difficulties of Lancelot’s impertinence and his haunting, too-familiar violet eyes behind him.

“Very well, Lancelot du Lac,” he says, stepping forward and outside of Gawain’s still-ready guard. “If you seek a place at my Table, then I must be satisfied of your quality as well.”

“I would have no other place,” he answers softly, and something in the way Lancelot says it unnerves him, like a hot lance through his gut.

He puts that out of mind, sliding Caliburn from its sheath. “Then draw your sword when you feel ready. Gawain, Bedivere, stand down.”

The over-familiar smile falls away from Lancelot’s face. His perfect brow furrows. “I would happily grant you a show of arms,” he promises, head tilted just slightly. “Yet you’ve only recently quit the field. Courtesy demands I offer you rest. I would rather defeat you fairly, and leave you without lingering questions as to my skill.”

Here, Arthur smiles. “You won’t defeat me. Set your expectations lower.”

Lancelot raises an eyebrow. Arthur has to admit it looks delightfully arrogant on him. “As you would have it, then,” Lancelot returns, eyes glittering. The knight hands his helm off to Bedivere, then draws his sword and cuts another courtly bow. “I shall aim lower, and hope only to earn your favor with a pleasing performance, regardless the outcome.”

They lay on.

#

Arthur will never know whether an hour’s rest would’ve changed the outcome of their battle. What he learns, in the clash of steel, is that Lancelot is as good as his word, where proving himself is concerned. Whatever he lacks in reputation, he’s possessed of an uncommon talent with a blade. He makes good use of his superior height and the length of his sword, keeping Arthur at a distance that tires him, and he’s faster and more agile than any man in full plate has a right to be.

It’s not that there’s no contest — it’s an incredible contest, actually, every moment creative and daring, a challenge that lights his heart aflame — it’s just that that, in itself, is remarkable. Even Gawain, whose steel does sometimes outmatch Arthur’s own, has never offered him such a fascinating duel, one that keeps him thinking throughout. Arthur’s tired and hungry, but he wishes he and Lancelot could dance like this forever.

#

Arthur loses.

He can’t find it in himself to care.

It comes upon Arthur all at once; just like that: he _wants him._

That’s not the sort of realization Arthur’s ever had before. His life has been an odd procession of things being given to him long before he can think to want them, then learning to love them in retrospect. Everything he’s ever been given in life, he appreciates it — but he hasn’t ever yearned for anything. Anything except this.

Arthur is flat on his back in the dirt, the tip of Lancelot’s sword brushing at the underside of his chin — as though needlessly worried that Arthur might look anywhere else — and oh, Arthur has never wanted anything in his life as much as he wants this man.

Caliburn lays all around him in shattered pieces, broken in the way that something steady and certain within Arthur feels broken. Unmoored, as upon a restless sea.

They’re both panting, exhausted from their duel, and Arthur can pretend he doesn’t notice when a bead of sweat drips from Lancelot’s nose to Arthur’s cheek, then rolls down over his lip into his mouth. He can pretend it doesn’t slide down his teeth onto his tongue. He can pretend he doesn’t taste it, precious and ephemeral like a snowflake, raw and salty and masculine like seawater.

He can pretend all that, but that’s it for him, truthfully. He’s done for. He’s had this one taste, and all it’s done is assure him he could drink and drink from Lancelot’s red lips and this thirst would still never be slaked. Arthur wants to look at him and touch him and taste him forever, this man he’s just met.

It’s an unfamiliar, frightening madness. Perhaps even Merlin would be surprised by it, were he here to see it. Lancelot reaches down a hand to help Arthur to his feet, and all Arthur wants to do is pull this exquisite creature down over him, raking their mouths over each other while he strips him of all that shining silver armor.

Instead, of course, he lets Lancelot help him stand.

Off to one side, Bedivere looks concerned. “I’m fine,” Arthur waves him off, and Gawain too. They’re both studying Lancelot with a new sort of interest. (It’ll be no time, he’s certain, until Gawain gives into the temptation to test his steel against the newcomer. He won’t be satisfied until he knows for sure which of them is the stronger.)

“Well fought,” Arthur congratulates his opponent. With hands still shaking from exhaustion, he fits the piece of the blade that remains on Caliburn’s hilt back into its scabbard. He’ll at least have to bring the remains of the sword back to Merlin, to see if it can be reforged.

Lancelot lowers himself to a knee. His eyes never leave Arthur’s face. “I must beg you look upon your disobedient servant with mercy for defying your command, good king,” he admits with a sly smile. “In truth, I never lower my expectations.”

Arthur can only laugh.

#

He’s a fixture at Arthur’s side from then on. The battlefield is somewhat distracting when Lancelot is upon it — to see him in his element, the long blade of Arondight a sweeping extension of his arm, is spellbinding; but Arthur can’t say he regrets a moment. With Gawain and Lancelot at the vanguard, Arthur’s army is practically an unstoppable force.

At night, when they make camp, Lancelot always puts himself near to where Arthur sleeps. They speak long into the evening, Lancelot plying him with questions that range from the personal to the philosophical to the practical, seemingly without logical flow. Some nights, Lancelot will ask him about his childhood: was he happy, growing up ignorant of his heritage? Did he find it difficult to adjust to his sudden elevation in rank? Other nights, Lancelot might question his beliefs: has he always felt that the systems of justice in Britain were lacking? Should justice be done even if the victim of an injustice does not seek it? Still other times, Lancelot is all business and strategy: he’ll ask Arthur about some battle that Arthur’s known to have lost, or where the victory was won steeply, and beg all the details of him until Lancelot can attempt to play out the field in his mind, looking for ways that Arthur and his men could’ve gained an advantage.

Arthur enjoys the philosophy and appreciates the strategy. The personal questions are a bit more difficult — Arthur’s careful in how he answers, conscious always that he has a reputation to uphold — but the most troublesome questions of all are the ones that don’t seem to have any clear purpose except simple curiosity. _Do you like travel? Do you have a favorite sort of music? Do you plait your own hair? Do you always take your breakfast where you can watch the sunrise?_ Arthur can only hope the orange firelight hides the blush on his cheeks.

He does his best to turn these questions back, feeling brave — _And what of you, Lancelot, do you care for dancing?_ — and whenever this earns him one of Lancelot’s beautiful smiles, he feels stupidly, ridiculously victorious.

“Your new knight seems quite taken with you,” Bedivere observes quietly at one point. He sounds amused, if anything, which is a relief.

Arthur denies it. Lancelot has had a strange upbringing, he demurs, and it makes him unaware of how intent he can be with others. Lancelot has a certain lack of casual manner that takes some getting used to, that’s all. But privately, Arthur is thrilled. Privately, he turns the words _your new knight_ over and over in his heart.

 _My knight,_ he allows himself to think: and in the curtained-off corridors of his heart, away from prying eyes, he needn’t feel guilty at all.

#

This little slice of bliss — having Lancelot to himself — doesn’t last. It never could, of course.

Their campaign ends, finding them returned to Camelot at last. There, for the first time, Sir Lancelot is introduced at court.

Arthur has a selfish, impossible impulse to secret him away somehow. He’s grown greedy for their campfire conversations, greedy for Lancelot’s gentle smiles and the way the fire turns his eyes clear and reddish, like wine. He doesn’t want to sit at a banquet table while Gawain and Sagramore shout at each other to be heard over the din, and Griflet tosses bones over his shoulders to the dogs, and all his men make merry and loud. Lancelot, he thinks, is too elegant for such a setting, his bearing too refined. It should be just the two of them, quiet and peaceful, as it has been. The other knights will never understand what someone like Lancelot is like.

What Arthur wants is to sit under the stars with Lancelot once more — chewing little strips of chicken, drinking cold water from a nearby stream — and to ask Lancelot if he knows how to sail a boat, and whether he likes it. Or perhaps to find out Lancelot’s favorite color. He’s planned out so many questions that he wants to ask, now.

Alas: such moments are not for Arthur to hoard. He belongs to Camelot, and in belonging to Camelot, he cannot claim such things for himself. He will not be seen as putting himself above his men, showing favor or disfavor.

Lancelot is presented at court, hands are clasped or kissed, and new friendships are struck. Arthur cannot keep him to himself.

#

“Do you trust him, Arthur?” Guinevere asks.

Arthur looks up from his chair to find himself being studied by his wife. He’s forgotten their conversation, lost in his thoughts. “Hmmm?”

The look she gives him is fond. Her fingers brush over the shell of his ear; he leans into it. “You were a hundred miles away just now, weren’t you?”

He ducks his head, smiling. 

“I suppose so. Off gathering wool, as usual. Pray forgive me, my love — what was it you were saying?”

One of Guinevere’s mercies is that she always does forgive him. Arthur, for all his efforts, is not a perfect husband. He knows — because one cannot be Arthur of Britain without hearing constant whispers of one’s own faults — that he is too quiet. He knows that he is too serious. He knows that Guinevere bears the burden of all Arthur’s shortcomings, when he struggles to crack a single joke or participate in a bawdy conversation or otherwise make people like him as a man instead of a king. He knows she works to make up the shortfall, and she never resents it.

Guinevere loves him, somehow, whether in public or alone. It’s not an act. No matter how awkward he feels, or how stiff his behavior, for her, Arthur is always somehow enough. He feels desperate, always, to show her his heart in return: to honor her as she should be honored, to worship her in all her magnificence. To show her how he loves that she makes him laugh. Arthur is grim, and severe, and far too pious to ever be thought fun. She deserves so much better — and still she cries out at the stroke of his fingers or the pinch of his teeth on her breast. Still she scrapes her teeth over his throat and begs for _more, please, yes_. Still she loves him without reservation. He never, for a moment, feels worthy.

“This Sir Lancelot,” she tries again, leaning closer into his space. “Bedivere says he was quick to insinuate himself. Do you suppose he can be trusted?”

Arthur’s eyes find Lancelot across the room with an immediacy that he fears will betray his feelings. His awareness of the knight feels far too keen; surely people will notice. Surely they can see the way Lancelot’s very presence draws on Arthur like a tether, how Arthur has to grip onto the arm of his chair to keep himself from rushing to the Frenchman’s side and begging him to wax lyrical about battle strategy or debate Greek tragedies with him again, to simply let Arthur be near him for one moment longer. Surely his weakness is obvious.

“He seems a decent man,” Arthur murmurs his reply, barely cognizant of how to answer such a question. He feels compromised by it. How can he say the truth: that he is beyond trust already, that he feels Lancelot within him like a piece of his soul, his every smile and stare and prying question courting the lonely spaces of Arthur’s pathetic little heart. How can he say any of that to the woman he loves?

She’ll see it in his face, he fears. Guinevere will be able to tell.

But when he looks back at her, Arthur finds that he’s wrong. Worse, he’s a fool. 

His wife isn’t looking at him at all, anymore. Her gaze is far across the room, too — her eyes are fixed on Lancelot, who has looked up from a conversation and is staring back at her. After a long moment, Lancelot smiles, and Guinevere smiles back.

The pain Arthur feels is strange, and cannot be described.

#

In time, and unsurprisingly, Lancelot becomes a cornerstone of Arthur’s court. His combat prowess is unshaken, and his reputation is well-earned; he even jousts beautifully. The Round Table begins, quite naturally, to divide itself down two lines: those that follow Lancelot’s example of knighthood, and those that cleave to Gawain’s. They remain Arthur’s two finest men, of course, and they share a certain camaraderie that comes of an attitude of zealous excellence — but it’s obvious the two men could scarcely be more different.

Gawain, like the sun that grants him such strength, is merry and warm and vital. He’s one of the founding members of Arthur’s Round Table, and he is down-to-Earth in a way that people relate to. There’s scarcely a festival or a dance that Gawain will consent to miss, scarcely a tankard of ale he’ll let pass by him untasted. His sense of decorum could stand some improvement — the man has an almost uncanny ability to accidentally offend women on a near daily basis — but generally, none of this is taken ill. Gawain means well, and he works harder than anyone. People like to be around him, whatever his gaffes. His very presence draws a crowd.

Lancelot, then, is perhaps more like the moon. He cuts a mysterious figure, cool and remote, bright and beautiful but far out of reach. The sheer poise with which he imbues his every action is so prominent as to be characteristic: he is almost obsessively genteel and decorous, the perfect ideal of a knight. He has never said an unkind word to a man unearned, and never to a woman at all. His manners set him apart from lesser men. He is beautiful, elegant, gracious — and yet he is known to have very few close friends, aside from his passionate kinship with the king. Where Gawain is joyful, Lancelot (like Arthur) is serious. Where Gawain is outgoing, Lancelot (like Arthur) is quiet. His company is easy enough to gain, but his true ardor is almost impossible to win.

Like Guinevere and Arthur themselves, Gawain and Lancelot provide a balance that inspires the other knights around them: Lancelot’s serenity to temper Gawain’s passion, Gawain’s affection to temper Lancelot’s exactitude. If Gawain has felt any sort of insecurity at having to share his formerly singular place of distinction among the knights of the Round Table with Lancelot, then to his credit, he’s never shown it. He doesn’t quibble about the fact that gentle Bedivere, their long-standing brother-in-arms, seems to subtly favor Lancelot’s graceful mien over Gawain’s boisterous one. He doesn’t even take offense when little Gareth, his own sibling, passes him over to instead beg a place as Lancelot’s squire. Like the good and dedicated knight he is, Gawain celebrates the fact that Lancelot’s presence makes Britain twice as strong.

#

Not everyone is so immune to Lancelot’s charms. Lancelot bears it with a sort of baffled grace, but Arthur can see how the ongoing inconvenience of it wears him down. He’s a much more private person than many people want him to be. Women — and men — are constantly importuning on his time, hoping for some sweet word or romantic favor, and while the other knights will mostly tease him about this in good fun, it’s obvious from the way his cheeks color at these interruptions that Lancelot finds the attention embarrassing. It sets Arthur’s teeth on edge; he wishes he could protect his friend from it.

Can’t they see that he’s uncomfortable? Can’t they see that he’s too polite to turn them away? (Can’t they see that he already has Arthur, and Arthur knows him, knows when Lancelot likes to sit in a window by himself reading a book, or when he’ll welcome a meandering treatise on the stars as they quietly watch the moon sift through the trees?) Can’t they see how their fawning makes him tired?

Arthur sees it. Kay — who sees everything, Arthur fears — sees it too. He’s rarely in Lancelot’s company, being more a member of Gawain’s set, but little details like a lack of closeness have never really served to still Kay’s tongue. “You could send them away, you realize,” he tells Lancelot unbidden.

Lancelot stares at him for several seconds, his face carefully blank, like he’s been presented with some kind of trick question. Eventually, he forces a smile, and though it’s obviously a lie, he says, “I don’t mind it.”

For once, Arthur wishes Kay would push the matter a little further. He doesn’t.

Guinevere tries, too. As is her way, she’s a bit breezier about it. “Good Sir Lancelot,” she addresses him on one particular afternoon, after he’s just bowed over another maiden’s hand and pressed a proffered favor to his breast in gentlemanly gratitude. “You will wear yourself into the ground. Have a care for your poor horse, at least, if not for yourself — you cannot possibly joust on behalf of every woman in Camelot.”

The smile Lancelot has for Guinevere is gentle. (It always is.) “No, milady,” he assures her, a bit of amusement flitting across his face. “Only the first who asks.”

Guinevere blinks, before she’s startled into a laugh. “Oh, ‘only?’ Well then, as my husband does not enter the lists, I shall be certain in future to ask that you ride in _my_ name, and spare you all the maidenly pestering.”

Lancelot bows low over her hand, kissing her knuckles. (Arthur doesn’t let himself think about it.) “You do me too much honor, milady.”

“Humility suits you ill,” she laughs again: her laugh is beautiful, like wind chimes. Arthur has always treasured it. “You may rest assured, sir, that my offer serves my own benefit — I adore winning in all things. I shall be quite satisfied to take credit for your victories at the joust.”

“You will not be disappointed,” Lancelot promises her.

(Arthur doesn’t let himself think about it.)

Still, Lancelot never changes. His sense of chivalric obligation is rigid and unshakeable. True to his word, the first woman who asks him to carry her favor into combat — whether Guinevere or some other maiden who reaches him first — is always accepted with gratitude and a smile.

#

Perhaps, then, Arthur shouldn’t be surprised by what happens with Galehaut.

Arthur has seen, by now, the heights of madness to which Lancelot’s magnificence inspires others. He’s felt some taste of it himself. 

He knows what it is to be enthralled with the sight of him — but Arthur is lucky, because where others pine and yearn for Lancelot’s time, Arthur is blessed to be the focus of it. Arthur is overcome with the joy of Lancelot’s friendship, basks in the light of his attention. Lancelot seems as content as Arthur is that they do nearly everything together: they break bread together, they sharpen their swords at the same time, they sit nearby and consult each other on tedious paperwork. If Arthur goes hunting, Lancelot is always available to join him; if a ball is to be held, Lancelot never abandons him to weather it alone.

Arthur is rich indeed, after all, to be thought of as Lancelot’s dearest friend. And if he longs for more — if he longs to know the press of Lancelot’s mouth against his collarbone, the grip of Lancelot’s fingers against his hip, the slide of his body closer still, inside, through him — well, no one is better than Arthur at being content with what he already has. Arthur has spent his whole life learning the virtues of appreciation and gratitude, and the perils of greed.

Other men lack Arthur’s hard-won temperance, his sense of noble moderation. Certainly Galehaut, at least, is shameless in his lust.

The man has had the temerity to march on Britain — on _Arthur’s land_ — meaning to take it for himself. His conquests, thus far, have not gone unnoticed: stories follow him, that Galehaut is an excellent leader, a noble lord, and commands a formidable army. He is bold and undaunted, a man quick to seize opportunity. Not unvirtuous, to hear it told — but when a man comes to take Arthur’s kingdom from him, Arthur is bound to some resentment on principle. And that’s before Galehaut meets Lancelot, and decides he wants him too.

Arthur’s army meets Galehaut’s on the battlefield in a spectacular clash. Galehaut outnumbers him, which is worrisome, but the knights of the Round Table are not normal men, and they meet the superior force of Galehaut’s men with all that they have.

The battle is protracted, a question of Galehaut’s strength against Camelot’s skill. Arthur does what he can to hold the field.

By sundown, they’re exhausted and in poor shape, and Arthur’s hopes of victory are battered. When Galehaut raises his standard in armistice — when he offers a parley, of all things — Arthur is, frankly, astounded. It would have been all too easy to fight on into the evening, capitalizing on the advantages that Galehaut’s men have gained, probably turning a winning battlefield into an absolute rout. Galehaut’s army, and their reputation in combat, have not been exaggerated. Arthur and his closest men gather themselves up, sweat making their chain maille that much heavier on their shoulders, and rally their strength so that they don’t appear utterly decimated when they go to hear Galehaut’s terms. Arthur will not have his enemy see him slumped over in his saddle, now or ever.

“Hail, Arthur,” Galehaut calls out, raising an arm in greeting. He’s in high spirits, and why not? His men stand on the verge of sending Arthur’s knights packing from their own soil, or watering it with their blood. The man is said to be born of giants, and Arthur can believe it: it takes a monstrous horse to bear him aloft. It’s always hard to tell, when a man’s astride, but Arthur would wager that Galehaut must be nearly seven feet tall.

Fortunately, Arthur is past the point in his life where the heights of men can intimidate him. No one who’s ever questioned the prowess of “runtish” King Arthur has ever come out the better for underestimating him. He sets his jaw and allows himself to be looked down upon; it has no power over him. “Hail, Galehaut,” Arthur offers back, his tone dead even.

Galehaut ignores Arthur’s diffidence as though it hadn’t happened at all. They may as well be discussing the summer’s fine harvest for all the gravity he shows for the proceedings, even while Arthur’s men and his own lie bleeding nearby. Arthur marks him excessive in bravado and lacking in solemnity. Disgraceful, he thinks, that such a man should aspire to be king. Typical.

“A fine battle today,” Galehaut observes, drawing his horse closer to speak at a more conversational volume. “Your knights very much live up to their legend, I must say! I can’t remember a time I’ve enjoyed myself more.”

“You stand before the finest knights in all the world,” Arthur agrees tersely, but with no small amount of pride. He offers a grim smile. “Your legend follows you as well — and with merit, for the men who fight in your name do you great credit. But be assured, your tales end here.”

Galehaut laughs — but with surprising sobriety in it, quietly, his shoulders set. “Perhaps, yes. What a loss tomorrow will be, whether for you or for I.” The man shifts in his saddle, closes his eyes for a moment . . . and then shrugs his shoulders, rolling them back, and the easy warmth returns to his face once more. “You must forgive my asking, but . . . there is a knight among your number, the likes of which I have never seen. A white knight, with a sword of gold and silver, wearing a white and blue tabard. He nearly turned our entire right flank single-handed. I would think it a privilege to meet him.”

Arthur lets out a slow breath. He can feel Lancelot watching him, waiting for a sign. The petty part of Arthur wants to refuse Galehaut’s request, to deny him the chance to have this one thing he’s asking and watch the smile slide off of Galehaut’s face. But Arthur is never petty: instead he nods, gesturing his friend forward, and Lancelot urges his horse up to take the place at Arthur’s right hand side.

“Sir Lancelot,” Arthur says. He’s instantly uplifted just by the presence of Lancelot at his side, as he always is, and a bit of that cheer slips its way into his voice. “Our opponent wishes to offer you accolades for your good showing on the field today.”

Lancelot rolls his shoulders, and the dying sunlight undulates across his polished silver pauldrons. He lifts off his helm to meet Galehaut’s eyes, the otherworldy violet of his hair spilling around his shoulders. “My thanks,” he says with measured grace, curiosity evident in his eyes.

“Good God,” Galehaut breathes aloud, shaking his head in evident mirth. “The angels have spared absolutely no effort in making you, have they?”

To this, Lancelot blushes — he _blushes!_ — and says nothing.

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “Are you now satisfied?”

“Not remotely,” Galehaut says, without looking back at Arthur. The way he looks at Lancelot is dreamlike. Smitten. “Noble Sir Lancelot — you are . . . without equal whatsoever. Allow me to present you with an offer?”

“Milord?” Lancelot prompts, his manner going somewhat stiff. Arthur knows Lancelot is tolerant of all manner of presumptuousness, but if Galehaut is about to offer him an opportunity to defect from the Round Table, Lancelot is prepared to take offense. It makes something tighten in Arthur’s heart.

“If you think to steal away my knight,” Arthur warns, “kindly don’t waste our time.”

That does compel Galehaut to finally glance Arthur’s way again, if only for a moment. “Oh, not at all,” he decries. “I am not so much a fool as to think I could.” He leans forward in his saddle. “We’ll not take up arms again until dawn. Yield me the pleasure of your company for the evening, and in the morning, I promise you any boon you desire.”

Arthur glares at him, cold, and reaches for his sword. This is an insult Lancelot does not deserve, it’s not to be borne — 

Lancelot’s gauntleted hand, gentle on Arthur’s wrist, stays him. “Do I have your word on that, milord?”

Arthur didn’t expect this. He — he doesn’t know what to do. What is Lancelot doing?

“On my honor, sir. Come the morning, I will return you to your king in safety, with anything whatever you ask that I have the power to grant.”

Lancelot drops his gaze to somewhere between his horse’s ears, lashes dropping to shade his lovely sunset eyes. He smiles. Arthur feels his stomach drop. “I accept your terms. Allow me to settle matters with my squire and I’ll join you presently in your bivouac.”

Galehaut’s grin is dazzlingly bright. “Of course. You shall be awaited.” He and his attendants turn and leave.

Arthur feels paralyzed. Somehow, the scene has passed him by, and a decision has been made. He should have said something — somehow, he should’ve found his voice, should’ve diverted this scene from its course before this man could proposition Lancelot, before Lancelot could _accept_ — 

Has Arthur ever protected him? Has there ever once been a man or woman desperate for Lancelot’s attention that Arthur has stepped in to send away? Somehow, in moments like this, Arthur feels like he can never find his voice. It dries up, like a pond frozen in winter, and he doesn’t know what to say. He can’t seem to find his place in a conversation. Has Arthur left his dearest, most treasured friend to gallantly suffer yet another imposition?

Arthur thinks of Lancelot’s hand on his arm, thinks of how well Lancelot knows him, and thinks — _he was protecting_ me _. He saw me unsure, upset, unable to talk my way out of a situation, and he spared me it._

All at once, Arthur can’t bear it. He wheels his horse around to follow where Lancelot’s gone, halfway to where Gareth is ready to start taking off his armor. Arthur grabs him by the bicep, armor catching armor, before he can go any further. Lancelot draws his horse up short.

“You don’t have to do this,” Arthur tells him, with fire in his voice. “I would _never_ ask this of you.”

Lancelot sighs, smiling at Arthur in a way that’s always made him feel — _loved_. He clasps a hand over Arthur’s, giving it a comforting squeeze. “No,” he agrees. “You would never.”

“Then _why?_ ”

Lancelot’s eyebrows lift in question. A blush steals over his face again. “He . . . seems a pleasant man,” Lancelot confesses. “I suppose — because I like him. I’m sure he knows already that I’ll ask him to yield the field and the campaign to you, and he’s prepared to do it, even so. I suppose —” He hesitates, looking down to where his hand still holds Arthur’s. “I suppose a part of me admires his certainty, that he would give so much, just for a few moments of joy. I find it sweet.”

To this, Arthur can say nothing. Arthur has spent his entire life being the exact opposite of the sort of man Lancelot’s just described. That fantasy — to be treasured above all things, above ambitions, above ideals, is the one thing Arthur cannot give anyone. He’s been given a path to walk, a path to a better world, and if Arthur doesn’t walk it — if he turns aside for love or freedom — then no one will. The world sits on his shoulders. Merlin has been so, so clear on the point. This cup will not pass him by.

When Arthur doesn’t answer, Lancelot lifts Arthur’s hand off his arm, clasping it for a moment between his own. “Come the morning, I will be at your side again,” Lancelot reassures him, his voice so gentle, so tender, that it pains Arthur to hear it. “I beg you, do not think ill of me.”

That finds Arthur’s voice again for him rather quickly. How could Lancelot ever think so? “No,” Arthur insists, earnest. “No, never.” He chews his lip. “Only — only, I shall miss your company.”

Even encased in armor, the brush of Lancelot’s hand feels warm on Arthur’s chin. His smile is so, so beautiful — Arthur wishes he could look at it forever. “Nothing could keep me from you long,” Lancelot promises him. “Know that I am yours, above all others.”

Arthur wants to say he knows, because he really does think he can see it there, in Lancelot’s face. But in his heart, Arthur thinks of all the times his voice has failed him when he could have said something to show his heart in return — he thinks of how easily Kay crowded him out on a chess board with just a simple pawn’s game, he thinks of how easily his own anxieties make him feel undone — and he feels so much less sure.

#

Lancelot’s right. Galehaut surrenders to him the next morning, seemingly without a single regret, and then does him one better — he pledges himself to Arthur’s cause.

In time, Arthur’s forced to admit that Galehaut is as good a man as Lancelot thinks. He lacks the makings of a truly good king — on that point, Arthur’s opinion is unchanged — but his admiration for Lancelot seems to sincerely go beyond skin deep. Lancelot’s chivalry — his innate goodness — inspires Galehaut, as it does so many, to see what it is that Arthur strives to create in the world: a place where ideals are valued, protected, upheld.

Lancelot, Arthur so often thinks, is Arthur’s dream made flesh. He is the embodiment of virtue, of decency, of honor.

People see in him the best of what they could be.

He is good, and kind, and infallible.

#

Then, one day, he is cold. He is _fallible_. Something is wrong.

Lancelot, above all men at Arthur’s court, is known for his surpassing courtesy. No woman has ever said that Sir Lancelot has said a single unkind word to her, or given her cause to be disgraced. Arthur’s seen it himself: Lancelot will bend over backwards to behave decorously, whatever effort it demands of him. His reputation has heretofore been spotless.

It’s alarming, then, that the only time Arthur ever sees him discourteous with a woman is when he comes home to Camelot after a time away and suddenly presents a wife at court.

It is, without doubt, the iciest, most perfunctory court presentation Arthur has ever seen.

The woman who accompanies him is young and pretty, blond hair carefully braided around the crown of her head, and she walks with nervous determination, a pitiful picture of a young lady determined to hold her head up high. Lancelot isn’t touching her, doesn’t touch her.

“Your majesty,” he says curtly. His eyes are focused in the distance, at some point between Arthur’s throne and Guinevere’s. “Allow me to present to you my wife, the Lady Elaine of Corbenic.” He bows.

Guinevere, seated in her place at Arthur’s side, greets this news cautiously. “What lovely news,” Guinevere says, in a voice that almost doesn’t waver. (Arthur doesn’t think about that, can’t think about it.) “Welcome to Camelot, Lady Elaine. Of course we shall have a room prepared—”

“No.” Lancelot holds up a hand. “That won’t be necessary. The lady returns to her home directly.”

If the entire scene hadn’t already drawn stares, that statement certainly would.

Guinevere looks to Arthur, waiting for him to speak. She’s right, of course: Arthur can’t sit silently while this scene plays out, letting it become more troublesome for his withheld opinion. He doesn’t understand the scene — why Lancelot is suddenly _married_ , or why Guinevere can possibly bear that any more than he can — but as the king, he’ll certainly disgrace Lady Elaine further if he doesn’t acknowledge her.

“Then we bid you welcome as well as safe travels, Lady Elaine,” Arthur tries. “The journey is long to Joyous Gard, but the terrain is easy —”

Lancelot grimaces, like the thought for some reason surprises and disgusts him. “The lady returns to Corbenic,” he clarifies.

Elaine speaks for the first time. “I am to be delivered of a child,” she explains. “I had thought to have it in a more familiar place.”

Given the woman is not visibly pregnant, this seems a flimsy justification; but Arthur has no desire to humiliate the lady further, not when he understands so little of what’s going on. Perhaps it’s best to simply let the introduction end as swiftly as possible. He’ll ask Lancelot later.

(Has he stepped in to rescue a pregnant girl’s reputation after she had an ill-advised liaison with some wretch who hadn’t stood by her? But if that were so, it explains none of Lancelot’s behavior; he has such a tender heart when faced with a woman who’s been ill done by. What could this nervous young woman have done that would gain her his hand but also his utter contempt?)

“Then we wish you a swift and happy return to your homeland, and an easy and healthy birth to come. Be well, Lady Elaine.”

“Thank you, your majesty,” she says, with a deep curtsey. He answers it with a nod. When Elaine rises, she reaches out towards Lancelot, like she might tuck her hand around his arm, but he steps very deliberately out of her reach. She cringes, looking crestfallen, and turns so the two of them can take their leave.

Lancelot doesn’t see it. The entire time, he never looks at his wife once.

#

Lancelot — to his credit as a gentleman and to the great detriment of his reputation — will not speak against his wife, whatever his grievance with her. Arthur tries to ask him soon after, when they’re sitting alone under the stars, what happened between him and the Lady Elaine, but Lancelot only tells him the same thing Arthur heard him tell Gawain, and then Kay.

_’Will you tell me what passed between you and your wife?’ Arthur asks, placing a hand on Lancelot’s shoulder. It’s the most he dares: and when Lancelot flinches, just briefly, under Arthur’s touch, he thinks it was probably a mistake to presume such a closeness, after all._

_’I bedded her out of wedlock, and the union resulted in a pregnancy,’ Lancelot explains flatly. ‘The child does not deserve to be born in disgrace.’_

_Arthur can’t help how obvious it is that this explanation is incomplete. Lancelot has said nothing of the notion that his wife might not deserve to live in disgrace, either. He wishes he knew how to convince Lancelot to confide in him further; he’s never had to try before. Lancelot has never held himself back from Arthur like this. It’s painful in a new way that cuts keen, that Lancelot should be so close, so clearly in need, and Arthur has no idea how to reach him._

_’I’ve never seen you in such pain,’ Arthur says — a pathetic attempt, he’s sure, but he still wants to try. ‘Whatever it is you won’t say, I know your character. You’re a good man, my friend. I will always trust in your choices.’_

_The attempt fails more spectacularly than Arthur could’ve imagined. Lancelot, sitting next to him, only seems to crumple into himself at that, looking miserable._

_Arthur doesn’t know what’s happened, but he hates himself for being unable to do anything but make it worse._

Rumors spread that Lancelot seduced his young bride, grew bored with her, and set her aside. He does nothing to dispel them.

Guinevere, who is so often in Lancelot’s confidence, has little better luck in drawing answers from him. She lays in bed next to Arthur and presses her forehead to his, and they worry over it together. “He says the lady played him false in some way,” she shares, “but however I pressed him, he would speak no more of it.”

Arthur sighs — that explains little — but Guinevere, it seems, has more to say. “Now, perhaps you won’t find this as strange as I think, but . . . I’m certain I saw Lancelot in conversation with Merlin, of all people, earlier this afternoon. In all these years, have you ever known them to be close?”

Merlin? “Not at all, no,” he’s forced to agree. “It’s not common that Merlin speaks with anyone that isn’t me. He says it affects too much. You know what he’s like.”

Guinevere smiles back tiredly, linking a hand with his. “I do. I’m not certain your wizard has ever stayed long enough to finish an entire conversation with me. So, do you suppose if Lancelot was talking to Merlin about it, whatever happened might be something magical in nature?”

Arthur nods. It’s as much as they can really divine about it.

They never do learn anything more. In time, the child is born. Lancelot makes the journey to Corbenic for the birth, and gives his son a name — Galahad — but after he returns to Camelot, he doesn’t go back again. With nothing new to fuel them, eventually, the rumors grow stale and uninteresting.

#

In time, other dramas rise to replace the ones that fall by the wayside. It’s a painful business, years later, the matter of Tristan, and King Mark, and Iseult. 

Knights have left the Round Table before for their own reasons — they grow old and have lives they want to get on with, they have children they want to raise or lands to tend, or they no longer take an interest in building the Britain that Arthur envisions. Seats at the Table are not necessarily lifelong appointments, and no one’s held to them. But this is the first time Arthur ever realizes a knight is leaving the Round Table _because of Arthur_. Because Tristan finds his king lacking.

Tristan’s discontent has been growing over time, of course. Given to a melancholic nature, Tristan joined them from King Mark’s court already a somber figure, hoping for a new start. But, though the other knights embraced him, though he found friends who showed compassion for his strange, endless heartache, time could not dispel his sorrow. Whatever he threw himself into, his efforts only seemed to beget more grief, in the end. A brooding knight became a wretchedly sorrowful knight, and ultimately, a figure of abject despair. Now, he simply sits at the Round Table most days, listless — and it’s only prodding from Lancelot or Bedivere, seated next to him, that can call him to attention when he’s being spoken to.

Arthur has no idea what to do, or how to help him — but in this state, he fears to send Tristan back out into the field. Lancelot is cautious on the matter, when they and Gawain discuss it privately, and argues that perhaps leaving him without assignments will only worsen the way Tristan disconnects himself from the world, but he, too, is forced to concede that the battlefield is dangerous for more people than just Tristan, and Arthur can’t send a man into the field that he can’t rely upon.

Gawain tries to find work for him to do around the castle, but soon enough, Tristan notices what’s been done.

He stares down at the table, studying its grain while he listens to Arthur reading out assignments for his knights, and then he says quietly, “Nothing for me again, Arthur?”

Arthur feels his throat close briefly. “Gawain has work for you. There’s always more that’s needed, for all of us —”

A harsh snort. “More hay and pitchforks, no doubt. Am I still a member of this Table, or am I simply warming a chair?”

Arthur can’t let himself wince, but oh, he wants to. Instead he has to find some way to explain this. To not insult Tristan, but to be honest. Guinevere would know how. Arthur feels like half an idiot, trying. “No one is taking your seat from you. . . . We see you struggling, and we only wish to give you the space to, to find peace—”

Tristan looks up at him with hard eyes. “Can you convince King Mark to give up his wife, and let her come here to me?” he challenges.

“You know I can’t,” Arthur answers quietly, carefully.

Tristan laughs, and it’s brittle, and so terribly miserable. “Then I will never find peace. You can’t . . . you can’t imagine that, can you?”

Arthur grimaces. He thinks that much will be forgiven, a small twisting of his face. “Of course I understand that you’re in pain . . . ”

Arthur assumes that’s where he truly loses him. Tristan shoves back his chair, finding his feet.

“That’s it,” the knight says, shaking his head. “You don’t, though, do you? No matter what happens, you just put your nose down and keep going, don’t you? You don’t know what it’s like to be torn apart like this from the inside, day after day, and to know you shouldn’t let it leak out of you, but you can’t help it, because no matter what you do, you just _can’t hold it in_ —! You’re so, so focused on your perfect kingdom, on being a perfect king . . . you’ll never possibly understand what it’s like, to just have the heart of a weak and mortal man.” He steps away from the Table. Arthur knows, even before Tristan says it, that it’s over. “This chair is mine no longer,” he announces. “Find a knight with a stronger heart to fill it.”

The door slams behind him as he leaves.

Arthur moves to rise — it would be cruel to let Tristan leave without trying to truly reach him — but Lancelot’s hand is gentle on his shoulder. “I’ll speak with him,” he says, rising. “Pain makes for sharp words; do not take them to heart.” 

#

Arthur, ultimately, decides to go after Tristan anyway. Lancelot’s gone first, but if he’s convinced Tristan to speak with him at all, they can’t have gotten far in this time. He pursues them, following corridors he knows will lead towards Tristan’s rooms, and comes upon the two men in conversation down a farther turn in the hall.

“Arthur feels pain as deeply as you or I,” Lancelot is assuring him, a hand steady on Tristan’s smaller shoulder. “But as a king, his burdens are far greater than we can know. He works to hide his pain from you so you never have to shoulder it, that’s all. He worries for you — for us all — because he loves us. He must be tenfold stronger and steadier than the rest of us. He does not expect you to abandon the ache in your heart.”

Tristan shrugs Lancelot’s hand off. “Does he not? He sets me out to pasture as a failure when my torment gets the better of me — when my dishonor with Iseult embarrasses him — yet he’s content to turn a blind eye rather than face his hypocrisy and put his own house in order. I’m sick of it.”

Lancelot goes very still. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he says softly.

To that, Tristan snarls his frustration. “You _do_. You do! Do you think we don’t know it? Everyone knows it! Your own _son_ sits in his perfect little seat across from you at the Table and _pities you_ for your sins, for abandoning his mother. He watches you more than the rest of us — do you think he’s never seen you disappear into an alcove with Guinevere? You think you’ve protected his gentle little heart from that secret, from wondering how his mother lured you into your bed? We’ve _all_ seen it. Arthur has seen it so many times, and he just, he just — _turns away_. He lets you both suffer, so long as you keep toiling away for Camelot. None of it matters to him, so long as he gets the perfect world he wants, and all the rest of us — we keep on pretending to be perfect, like he wants us to be, or we get thrown away once we admit that we’re broken.” He grabs Lancelot by the shirt. “You know! You of all people, you were my friend, you always understood me, because you feel it too. This pain, like there’s something jagged in you, because you know everything you love is _wrong_.”

Arthur’s always known he was bad with people. He knows he’s — difficult. He doesn’t speak his feelings well. He knows he doesn’t cut a lovable figure. But this — but this — !

Has he been such a horrible person, after all? Is this what they all think, but don’t say?

Lancelot hangs his head. “You mistake his compassion for indifference,” he insists. 

Tristan sighs. His hand drops away from Lancelot’s tunic again. He turns aside, looking defeated. “You can’t see it. You love him too much — you always have. You can’t see how he’s going to destroy you.”

“That’s _not true_ —”

“I’m sorry, my friend. I’ll miss you.”

“Tristan . . .” Lancelot tries a last time, weakly.

But Tristan turns to leave, and sees Arthur, and his eyes go dark and distant. “Your majesty,” he says dully.

Lancelot startles, turning to see him. He looks mortified.

“I’m sorry I failed you, Tristan,” Arthur says quietly.

Tristan looks at him for a long while, steady. Arthur can’t see pain or anger or bitterness now in his eyes — they’re just empty, assessing him. “Well, whether or not you are,” he finally says, “goodbye, Arthur.”

He loses Tristan then, forever. He doesn’t return to the Round Table, and in the end, when he later dies, Arthur and his men aren’t there to offer him even the meagerest comfort. 

#

Maybe, Arthur thinks, Tristan would’ve liked to be there at last, when Arthur gets his comeuppance. When Mordred, the masked knight, at last lifts his helm one day and Arthur sees his own face staring back at him, the evidence undeniable. When Arthur at last learns that long, long ago, something was taken from him that he can never get back.

“You’re my father,” Mordred says, grasping for his hands. “Don’t you see? I’m your son. I can carry on your legacy, I can keep Camelot alive in your name after you’re gone. I can —” 

“No,” Arthur says, grasping for a chair, his head spinning. This isn’t possible. He would’ve known, or Merlin would’ve said something — the wizard never kept secrets like this — this can’t truly be happening. It’s an illusion. Illusions are common magic, and long before his disappearance, Merlin taught him to be wary of them, so this can’t be real. It can’t be possible.

He can’t sire a child, not at all. He would know if someone had — 

No.

“You’re no son of mine,” he says levelly, but with finality. He will not entertain this thought for a moment longer. “I gave Morgan what she wanted: a seat for you at the Table. Keep it by your own merits. Tell Morgan I have no taste for her illusions, and this one is ill-conceived indeed.”

Mordred’s face goes red. He looks — humiliated. Angry. Crushed.

 _That’s Morgan’s fault,_ Arthur thinks, because to think otherwise is more than he can cope with. _Not mine. Let my foul sister clean up her own wicked mess._

He can’t. He can’t do this. This hasn’t happened. It isn’t what it seems to be.

#

To the credit of his many knights, and of his wife, they all try to draw him out. He’s not himself, they notice. He pulls away all the time. He’s quieter than normal.

No one tries harder than Lancelot. Repeatedly. Gently. With patience that Arthur thinks — hopes — fears — will never expire.

“Guinevere misses you,” he says in that quiet voice, the one that still sounds ethereal, reminding Arthur that once, long ago, Lancelot grew to manhood in a strange, fey realm. (Somehow, even so, Arthur thinks it’s Lancelot who’s now become the more human of them, and Arthur who’s only grown farther and farther from it. Is he even human at all anymore? Would he be able to tell?) “She hopes you might speak to me.” Delicately, he asks, “Will you?”

Arthur tries to imagine it. _Morgan took something from me. She took something from my body, and I **never knew** , and she grew my child in her womb — and I **never knew** — and the child has my face. Every time I look at him, he has my face, and — and haven’t they already asked enough of me? Haven’t I given up my life for Camelot? My name? My future? Haven’t I given up Guinevere’s happiness? And yours? And mine? Haven’t I given everything they’ve ever asked of me, to bring this kingdom into being? Am I expected to bear this last thing, too — and every day look in its face, **my face** , and be reminded, that Camelot will always expect one thing more?_

_May I not simply hate something for a moment?_

He almost, almost says it. They’ve seen Mordred’s face by now, his accursed face, so they all know some of what’s gone on. It wouldn’t be hard to explain the rest. Lancelot is looking at him now with such tenderness in his face, such attentive care, and Arthur thinks, for a moment, _yes, I’ll tell him, he’ll be kind to me_ — but then the moment passes, and he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, what his mind conjures up are memories of Lancelot talking gently with Galahad. Lancelot, who tries so badly to win his son’s love, day after day. Lancelot, who could probably have done it so much more easily, by now, if he were willing to say a single unkind word to Galahad about his mother, but who holds his tongue and lives with his son’s tender, condescending scorn.

“No,” Arthur decides, whispering it into the shadows between them. Lancelot’s careful to school his expression, but even in the dark of the alcove where they’re sitting, Arthur thinks he sees Lancelot’s face fall, a little. “I don’t think it’s something you could understand.”

Lancelot stares at him, expressionless. Eventually — his voice flat, like maybe he’s a bit stunned — he says, “I think it’s something no one could understand better than I do.”

Arthur feels this new pain — shame — not like a knife, but like a weight: like a great, heavy blanket on him, holding him farther and farther down. He thinks of Lancelot, stepping aside when his wife tries to touch him. He thinks of Lancelot, desperately going to Merlin for help, of all people, because he doesn’t know what to do about what’s happened otherwise. Arthur remembers, and he feels ashamed for assuming Lancelot would be unsympathetic. “You’re right,” he says. “That was badly done of me. Forgive me.”

Lancelot — who is too good for Arthur, who always has been — just nods.

“Still,” Arthur says quietly, looking at his feet, gripping the edge of the bench. “ . . . I don’t suppose I have the words.”

Lancelot waits, saying nothing until Arthur looks up at him again. What Arthur sees in Lancelot’s eyes is what he’s always seen there: a connection between them, sure and strange, something that’s just for them. “Then don’t have words,” he says tenderly, his gaze intense and full of love.

This is it, Arthur thinks. This is the moment where he could do it: he could lean forward, pressing his forehead against Lancelot’s, and then his nose, and then his lips. He’d only have to learn forward a few inches. He’d only have to reach up, cradling Lancelot’s face in his hands, reminding him _you’re mine, you promised to only be mine, I only want you to look at me, I love you._ It would be so easy to breathe Lancelot’s soul into his, to twine them together as they’ve always meant to be. To have a few sweet moments that he’s spent so many years never, ever having.

But he doesn’t. He reaches out for Lancelot’s hand, laces their fingers together, and squeezes as hard as he can.

And Lancelot, who is faithful in ways no one else understands, accepts it and asks nothing more.

#

They try Guinevere for adultery. There are witnesses. She’ll be burned at the stake.

That, at least, doesn’t bother Arthur like it should. It’s not for the reasons that Tristan and his ilk might’ve thought — of all people, he could never be cold to Guinevere’s death, he could never _allow it_. But Arthur knows, as they all know, that Lancelot will come. He’ll take Guinevere away with him to safety.

 _Thank God,_ Arthur thinks desperately. _I want to see you again._

Arthur had thought, like an idiot, that he’d felt lost before. He’d thought everything had been asked of him that could possibly be asked, that he had nothing more to give. He’d been so utterly stupid. His world contains so many precious things left to lose.

#

Lancelot comes for her with a small army, but he barely needs them. It’s Lancelot himself who cuts his way through most of the knights who’ve been posted there to stop him. Arondight swings free and fast that day, put to a purpose for which it must not fail. He cuts down knights, soldiers, guards. He cuts down Gareth, who treasures him still as a teacher and a friend, who showed up to the trial armorless in protest. He cuts down Gaheris.

Gawain will never forgive him.

Arthur supposes he shouldn’t either.

(But he will.)

#

They march on Joyous Gard. Agravain insists on it.

They are supposed to kill Lancelot, and take Guinevere back to Camelot to be put to the torch again.

No one notices that Arthur doesn’t want them to do any of it. No one cares. He rides in their midst like a corpse strapped to the saddle.

#

He fights, when it comes to it. That much is second nature to him; put Arthur on a battlefield and he’ll swing his sword without even needing conscious thought. He’ll always fight to live, to protect his kingdom. Excalibur slices through the air, and Arthur’s not even paying attention to who he’s cutting down.

He spots Lancelot across the battlefield a few times, much to his pathetic joy. It’s a relief whenever Arthur can spot him and finds him still safe, Arondight cutting a red shield of pure peril around him. At other moments, when Lancelot looks briefly overwhelmed, Arthur wants to ride to him, to cut down his own men to reach Lancelot’s side and keep him from harm.

#

He barely notices when he’s unhorsed. One moment, he’s seated astride, Excalibur knocking a spear out of the air, and the next, he’s lying on the ground, watching the world fade in from the black veil of unconsciousness.

Above him, he sees — impossibly — Lancelot standing over him. He’s pulling Arondight out of a body lying near Arthur’s on the ground, and he has the reins of Arthur’s horse in his other hand, pulling it along. He abandons the sword to the corpse momentarily and reaches down to grab Arthur’s forearm and wrench him to his feet. “Come,” he says urgently, pressing the reins into Arthur’s hand. “You must hurry.”

In the next second, he has Arondight back in hand, and he pushes Arthur aside to bury his sword into something behind him. Arthur twists, Excalibur already raised, to see that Lancelot has struck down one of his own men.

Of course he has. _Of course he has._

“Get on your horse,” Lancelot insists.

“Come home,” Arthur breathes out, not thinking about it, because what is Camelot without Lancelot? What is Arthur? 

He’s so tired of all this. He doesn’t want to ride back to Camelot, only to be king of a cracked table. Only to find the place at his shoulder always cold, Lancelot always missing.

What had he been imagining of this campaign, except that Lancelot and Guinevere would come home and all would be forgiven?

All around him, Agravain has raised a thousand swords to fight a battle that Arthur thinks is comical, a ridiculous joke: to avenge a blow to Arthur’s honor that has never so much as pierced its skin. They may as well be riding into battle over a stubbed toe.

All around them, men are moving, blades flashing, and the two of them are supposed to be battling for life and death, for honor, for someone else’s idea of fealty. Instead, Lancelot is scraping Arthur’s helm out of the grass and pressing it back into his hands. Arthur clutches it to his stomach like he’s never seen one before. All he can think of is what Lancelot’s going to say, because all that matters is whether he’s coming home.

_I want something for myself, Kay. I want this one thing. Please._

Lancelot presses his hands into Arthur’s hair, checking him for injuries. It only takes a moment — Arthur’s not bleeding — but Lancelot holds onto his face for longer. Arthur’s glad for it. _Come home,_ he thinks again, like he can will it into being.

Lancelot looks back at him with such anguish on his face that Arthur almost looks away, just to relieve him of it. “I can’t,” he says. “That would ruin you. I can’t be the sin that stands at your right hand, not when I’ve harmed you so much already.”

Arthur can’t reach back — his hands are full — but he steps forward, pressing his face into Lancelot’s breastplate while Lancelot cradles his face, still, between gauntleted hands. “You’ve never harmed me. You were never a sin. Don’t think that of yourself.”

Lancelot’s hands move to wrap around Arthur’s back, and Arthur can feel his face, his mouth, pressing into Arthur’s hair. “I wish you would hate me,” Lancelot murmurs, flecking desperate kisses across Arthur’s skull like he can’t stop himself. (Arthur’s doing it too, his lips pressing stupidly against Lancelot’s breastplate over and over.) “I wish you would hate me even a little. For all I’ve done to you, I wish — I wish you would just try.”

Arthur thought, once, that if he could, his fantasy would be to be like Galehaut — to offer Lancelot anything he wanted, anything it was in Arthur’s power to give. Not in exchange for anything, but just to show him he loved him. Just to show him that Arthur’s love for him surpassed all things. Just to say all the things that were always stuck in Arthur’s throat, always unsaid between them.

Now, in this moment, he’ll deny Lancelot a final time. But this time, at least, Arthur will do it not for Camelot, but for himself.

“I refuse,” he says, with all the passion left burning in him. “I could never hate you.”

Lancelot lets out an anguished sound, wordless, but Arthur can’t stop now. God help him if he stops now.

“I love you so much,” he says. “It’s all I can ever feel for you. I’ve loved every moment of my life with you, and even the ones I only ever imagined.”

“Arthur,” Lancelot begs him, tortured.

Arthur steps back. “I wanted you to know,” he says. Of all the things he’s done, this is the bravest he’s ever been.

Lancelot shakes his head. He’s crying — but they both are, and Arthur’s not surprised. “Get on your horse,” he says. “You have to go home now.” He bends down like he can’t help himself, presses his lips to Arthur’s to steal just one kiss. (Arthur leans forward, makes it two, three.)

“I can’t.”

“You have to. You’ve never let someone dictate your battles to you before. You did not choose to be here. Take your men and lead them back home, before whatever plot awaits you there comes to pass. Agravain has not stolen your crown from you yet.”

Lancelot’s right, Arthur knows. He shouldn’t have let himself be dragged here in the first place. Whatever’s left of Camelot now that his Round Table’s been half emptied, Arthur still believes in it. He still loves it. That’s what Lancelot has always understood about Arthur, above all things — that Arthur will fight to his very last breath for the sake of a beautiful world he still wants to give to Britain.

This battlefield has nothing to do with that dream. This is just Arthur and Lancelot, saying goodbye. “Of course,” he says quietly. “Thank you.”

Lancelot cups his hands together, and Arthur steps a foot into them, to let Lancelot heave him onto his horse. That should be the end of it, they both know: but just for a few seconds, Lancelot turns his head and leans his face into Arthur’s thigh. Just for a few seconds, they stay there: and then Lancelot lets him go.

**Author's Note:**

> It was such a joy and an honor to get to take up my pen and attempt to put this tale to paper. Thank you for reading.
> 
> * * *
> 
> **I Am Not Yours**  
>  \- Sara Teasdale
> 
> _I am not yours, not lost in you,  
>  Not lost, although I long to be  
> Lost as a candle lit at noon,  
> Lost as a snowflake in the sea._
> 
> _You love me, and I find you still  
>  A spirit beautiful and bright,  
> Yet I am I, who long to be  
> Lost as a light is lost in light._
> 
> _Oh plunge me deep in love—put out  
>  My senses, leave me deaf and blind,  
> Swept by the tempest of your love,  
> A taper in a rushing wind._  
> 


End file.
